CHAPTER VI
MRS. VRAIN'S STORY
Denzil was much pleased with the courtesy of the detective Link inpermitting him to gain, at first hand, further details of thismysterious case. With a natural curiosity, engendered by his shortacquaintance with the unfortunate Berwin, he was most anxious to learnwhy the man had secluded himself from the world in Geneva Square; whowere the enemies he hinted at as desirous of his death; and in whatmanner and for what reason he had met with so barbarous a fate at theirhands. It seemed likely that Mrs. Vrain, who asserted herself to be thewife of the deceased, would be able to answer these questions in full;therefore, he was punctual in keeping the appointment at the office ofLink.
He was rather astonished to find that Mrs. Vrain had arrived, and wasdeep in conversation with the detective, while a third person, who hadevidently accompanied her, sat near at hand, silent, but attentive towhat was being discussed. As the dead man had been close on sixty yearsof age, and Mrs. Vrain claimed to be his wife, Denzil had quiteexpected to meet with an elderly woman. Instead of doing so, however,he beheld a pretty young lady of not more than twenty-five, whoseraiment of widow's weeds set off her beauty to the greatest advantage.She was a charming blonde, with golden hair and blue eyes, and acomplexion of rose-leaf hue. In spite of her grief her demeanour waslively and engaging, and her smile particularly attractive, lighting upher whole face in the most fascinating manner. Her hands and feet weresmall, her stature was that of a fairy, and her figure was perfect inevery way.
Altogether, Mrs. Vrain looked like a sylph or a dainty shepherdess ofDresden china, and should have been arrayed in gossamer robes, ratherthan in the deep mourning she affected. Indeed, Lucian considered thatsuch weeds were rather premature, as Mrs. Vrain could not yet be certainthat the murdered man was her husband; but she looked so charming andchildlike a creature that he forgave her being too eager to considerherself a widow. Perhaps with such an elderly husband her eagerness wasnatural.
From this charming vision Lucian's eyes wandered to the attentive thirdperson, a rosy-cheeked, plump little man, of between fifty and sixty.From his resemblance to Mrs. Vrain--for he had the same blue eyes andpink-and-white complexion--Lucian guessed that he was her father, andsuch, indeed, proved to be the case. Link, on Lucian's entrance,introduced him to the sylph in black, who in her turn presented him tothe silvery-haired, benevolent old man, whom she called Mr. Jabez Clyne.
At the first sound of their voices Lucian detected so pronounced atwang, and so curious a way of collocating words, as to conclude thatMrs. Vrain and her amiable parent hailed from the States. The littlelady seemed to pride herself on this, and indicated her republicanorigin in her speech more than was necessary--at least, Denzil thoughtso. But then, on occasions, he was disposed to be hyper-critical.
"Say, now," said Mrs. Vrain, casting an approving glance on Lucian'sface, "I'm right down glad to see you. Mr. Link here was just saying youknew my husband, Mr. Vrain."
"I knew him as Mr. Berwin--Mark Berwin," replied Denzil, taking a seat.
"Just think of that now!" cried Mrs. Vrain, with a liveliness rathersubdued in compliment to her apparel; "and his real name was Mark Vrain.Well, I guess he won't need no name now, poor man," and the widowtouched her bright eyes carefully with a doll's pocket-handkerchief,which Lucian noted, somewhat cynically, was perfectly dry.
"Maybe he's an angel by this time, Lyddy," said Mr. Clyne, in acheerful, chirping voice, "so it ain't no use wishing him back, as I cansee. We've all got to negotiate kingdom-come some time or another."
"Not in the same way, I hope," said Lucian dryly. "But I beg yourpardon, Link, I interrupt your conversation."
"By no means," replied the detective readily. "We had just begun whenyou entered, Mr. Denzil."
"And it wasn't much of a talk, anyhow," said Mrs. Vrain. "I was onlyreplying to some stupid questions."
"Stupid, if you will, but necessary," observed Link, with gravity. "Letus continue. Are you certain that this dead man is--or rather was--yourhusband?"
"I'm as sure as sure can be, sir. Berwin Manor is the name of our placenear Bath, and it looks as though my husband called himself after itwhen he changed his colours. And isn't his first name Mark?" pursued thepretty widow. "Well, my husband was called Mark, too, so there youare--Mark Berwin."
"Is this all your proof?" asked Link calmly.
"I guess not, though it's enough, I should say. My husband had a mark onhis right cheek--got it fighting a duel with a German student when hewas having a high time as one of the boys at Heidelberg. Then he lostpart of his little finger--left-hand finger--in an accident out West.What other proof do you want, Mr. Link?"
"The proofs you have given seem sufficient, Mrs. Vrain, but may I askwhen your husband left his home?"
"About a year ago, eh, poppa?"
"You are overdoing it, Lyddy," corrected the father. "Size it up as tenmonths, and you'll do."
"Ten months," said Lucian suddenly, "and Mr. Berwin----"
"Vrain!" struck in Lydia, the widow, "Mark Vrain."
"I beg your pardon! Well, Mark Vrain took the house in Geneva Square sixmonths back. Where was he during the other four?"
"Ask me something easier, Mr. Denzil. I know no more than you do."
"Did you not know where he went on leaving Berwin Manor?"
"Sakes! how should I? Mark and I didn't pull together nohow, so hekicked over the traces and made tracks for the back of beyond."
"And you might square it, Lyddy, by saying as 'twasn't you who upset theapple cart."
"Well, I should smile to think so," said Mrs. Vrain vigorously. "I wasas good as pie to that old man."
"You did not get on well together?" said Link sharply.
"Got on as well as a cat hitched along with a dog. My stars! there wasno living with him. If he hadn't left me, I'd have left him--that's analmighty truth."
"So the gist of all this is that Mr. Vrain left you ten months ago, anddid not leave his address?"
"That's so," said the widow calmly. "I've not seen nor heard of him formost a year, till pop there tumbled across your paragraph in thepapers. Then I surmised from the name and the missing finger and thescarred cheek, that I'd dropped right on to Mark. I wouldn't take allthis trouble for any one else; no, sir, not me!"
"My Lyddy does not care about being a grass-widow, gentlemen."
"I don't mind being a grass-widow or a real one, so long as I know howto ticket myself," said the candid Lydia; "but seems to me there's noquestion that Mark's sent in his checks."
"I certainly think that this man who called himself Berwin was yourhusband," said Denzil, for Mrs. Vrain's eyes rested on him, and sheseemed to expect an answer.
"Well, then, that means I'm Mr. Vrain's widow?"
"I should say so."
"And entitled to all his pile?"
"That depends on the will," said Lucian dryly, for the light tone of thepretty woman jarred upon his ear.
"Oh, that's all right," replied Mrs. Vrain, putting a gold-toppedsmelling bottle to her nose. "I saw the will made, and know exactly howI come out. The old man's daughter by his first wife gets the manor andthe rents, and I take the assurance money!"
"Was Mr. Berwin--I beg pardon, Vrain--was he married twice?"
"I should think so!" said Lydia. "He was a widower with a grown-updaughter when I took him to church. Well, can I get this assurancemoney?"
"I suppose so," said Link, "provided you can prove your husband'sdeath."
"Sakes alive!" cried Mrs. Vrain briskly. "Wasn't he murdered?"
"The man called Berwin was murdered."
"Well, sir," said the rosy-cheeked Clyne, with more sharpness than mighthave been expected from his peaceful aspect, "and ain't Berwin Vrain?"
"It would seem so," replied Link coolly. "All your evidence goes toprove it, yet the assurance company may not be satisfied with the proof.I expect the grave will have to be opened, and the remains identified."
"Ugh!" said Mrs. Vrain with a shrug, "ho
w disgusting! I mean," sheadded, colouring as she saw that Lucian was rather shocked by herflippancy, "that sorry as I am for the old man, he wasn't a good husbandto me, and corpses a week old ain't pleasant things to look on."
"Lyddy," interposed Clyne, hastening to obliterate, if possible, theimpression made on the two men by this foolish speech, "how you do goon. But you know your heart is better than your tongue."
"It was, to put up so long with Mr. Vrain," said Lydia resentfully; "butI'm honest, if I'm nothing else. I guess I'm sorry that Vrain got stucklike a pig; but it wasn't my fault, and I've done my best to showrespect by wearing black. But it is no good going on in this way,poppa, for I've no call to excuse myself to strangers. What I want toknow is how I'm going to get the dollars."
"You'll have to see the assurance company about that," said Link coldly;"my business with you, Mrs. Vrain, is about this murder."
"I know nothing about it," retorted the widow. "I haven't set eyes onMark for most a year."
"Have you any idea who killed him?"
"I guess not! How should I?"
"You might know if he had enemies."
"He," said Mrs. Vrain, with supreme contempt, "why, he hadn't backboneenough for folks to get riz at him! He was half baked!"
"Crazy, that is," remarked Clyne; "always thought the world was againsthim, and folks wanted to get quit of him."
"He said he had enemies," hinted Lucian.
"You bet! He no doubt made out that all Europe was against him," saidClyne. "That was my son-in-law all over. Lyddy and he had a tiff, justlike other married couples, and he clears out to lie low in anout-of-the-way shanty in Pimlico. I tell you, gentlemen, that Vrain hada chip out of his head. He fancied things, he did; but no one wanted toharm him that I know of."
"Yet he died a violent death," said Denzil gravely.
"That's a frozen fact, sir," cried Clyne, "and both Lyddy and I want tolynch the reptile as did it; but we neither of us know who laid himout."
"I'm sure I don't," said Mrs. Vrain in a weeping voice. "Every one thatI knew was civil to him; he had no one who wanted to kill him when heleft Berwin Manor. Why he went away, or how he died, I can't say."
"If you want to know how he died," explained Link, "I can tell you. Hewas stabbed."
"So the journals said; with a bowie!"
"No, not with a bowie," corrected Lucian, "but with some long, sharpinstrument."
"A dagger?" suggested Clyne.
"I should be even more precise," said Denzil slowly. "I should say astiletto--an Italian stiletto."
"A stiletto!" gasped Mrs. Vrain, whose delicate pink colour had faded toa chalky white. "Oh!--oh! I--I--" and she fainted forthwith.